


Crown Junkers

by ahimsabitches



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Blood, Bottom Roadhog, Crown Jewels, Heist, Jewelry play??, Junkrat being himself, Junkrat in Roadhog's mask, Junkrat tops, M/M, Pegging, Rough Sex, Sex in an abandoned building, Sex in the Tower of London, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Junkers steal the Crown Jewels and have a lot of sex, or A Day In The Life Of Junkrat And Roadhog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crown Junkers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/gifts).



Heists always got Junkrat hot and bothered.

Roadhog snorted quietly into his mask.

 _Linoleum_ got Junkrat hot and bothered. 

The last try on this particular loot had been both unsuccessful and over 400 years ago. The bigger the job, the _wigglier_ Junkrat got. Roadhog both liked it—okay, _loved it_ —and didn’t.

He paused in a half crouch on the stone stairs, lit against the cool, humid night in rhythmic pulses of electric yellow lamplight in sconces styled to resemble pitch-and-pine torches, and put a hand out behind him, which Junkrat purposefully pressed himself against. According to the map in his head, the spiral tower stairs would rise one level and to a landing where a guard was posted. One guard. But Roadhog heard three voices. He narrowed his eyes. 

"Trouble ahead, mate? Let 'em taste summa this," Junkrat stage-whispered behind him and Roadhog heard the rattle and jingle of steel against prosthetic steel.

Until now, their shabby, cockneyed informant had told them true: the right number of puffed-ruff guards right where he'd said they'd be, changing shifts right when he said they would. They'd been armed, but what of them Junkrat's riptire hadn't chewed up had fallen to Roadhog's hungry hook, surging toward them like a toothed lover with razor-steel arms. 

They'd only gotten off a few shots, and only one had hit square. But the pain in Roadhog's shoulder was a half-flooded buoy in the rivers of adrenaline flowing through him.

"C'mon, mate, lemme roast 'em. Nobody behind us. I cook these drongos an’ you hook whoever’s left, right ol’ Roadie?" The words drizzled out of his mouth like ropes of lustful foam. 

As many times as he'd had to yank his young boss back from the brink of something catastrophically thickheaded, Junkrat wasn't _stupid_. He’d known better than to use bombs on the lower levels of the tower. Here, bottlenecked in this narrow staircase, what guards were left would only come from above and walk right into the black bore of Roadhog's scrapgun. 

Roadhog lowered his arm. _Click_. Junkrat lobbed the bomb up the stairs ahead of them with a grunt.

The hollow metal clink of the bomb landing on old stone was loud in the expectant quiet. Footsteps. Shuffling clothes. "What the deuce is--"

A wicked giggle in the roaring silence, and then the explosion shuddered the stone.

Roadhog scooped Junkrat up and dropped a few steps, turning his back to the blast, deafening in the small twisting space, and the screams it quickly swallowed. Heat poured down the staircase and the flesh on the broad plain of Roadhog's back tightened painfully. He gritted his teeth as Junkrat cackled and kicked in his arms, burrowing with frenetic fingers under the chin of his mask.

"We got 'em, Hoggy! We're almost there! Give us a good luck smooch, eh?"

He shook Junkrat's hands away, a great idle beast shaking off flies, and deposited him on the stairs. "Let's do the job," he growled and began to climb, hook in one hand and scrapgun in the other.

London, full of dimness and rain and the indolent green smell of ancient things upon which stories grew like moss, had been such a jarring change from the blasted yellowbrown hardpan of the Outback that Roadhog had lost himself for a moment.

Roadhog was a son of the ruined desert; the charred and snarling remains of Mako Rutledge humped out of the blighted earth. His fists flew like dry desert rocks. Sand drifted in the bitter chambers of his heart. In some backroom of his brain, half-cooked with heat and murder, was the relentless certainty that there had always been desert behind him, and there would always be wasteland stretched in a sere eternity in front of him.

This certainty had trembled like a pillar when Junkrat's grin had detonated on him. Every one of the skinny brat's giggles, needful clingings, and childlike chatterings had chipped away at the pillar holding his back straight and his brain to the false reality of the wasteland both in front of and behind his eyes. The pillar had finally toppled when, amongst the grey drizzle and stink of green and city, Junkrat had turned the golden lodestones of his eyes on Roadhog in a moment of innocent joy. They had tugged something slow and shining up from the root of his belly, and in a mighty thunderclap that remained silent in his throat and hidden behind his mask, Roadhog lost himself and regained a little, just a little, of Mako. 

Just a little. 

There was still the job, after all. They still had another guard station after this one, and the heavily-secured treasury room where the jewels were kept. And then out and away.

Roadhog followed the muzzle of his scrapgun up to the blackened guard station. The three guards, their blood-red uniforms and peacock-stupid ruffs scorched black, sprawled down the stairs, their last act a pitiful attempt at escaping Junkrat's bomb. Roadhog stepped over them.

"Rest in pieces, gents. Hey Hoggy, good place fer a bit of a breather, eh mate?"

Roadhog did not turn. If this were a smaller job with less of a chance of more bullets ending up in the three unwounded shoulders they possessed, he would ram Junkrat against the cool, chalky stone wall and take what they _both_ wanted, but this wasn't a half-abandoned shopping mall, and their score was not the Crown Pachimari. He grunted and moved on.

Junkrat was at his side, chattering in an endless stage whisper, tugging the dangling straps of his coveralls, squeezing the pig ideograms stitched onto his back pockets, running flesh and steel fingers across and across the folded-over top of his coveralls where cloth met the rim of his belly, grabbing the bulge between his legs hard enough to make Roadhog snort. He gritted his teeth, grateful for the mask.

By the time they made the second guard station, Roadhog's cock was hard and his patience was thin. He grunted, meaning it to exit the mask in a puff of exasperation, but it struck his ears as a half-strangled groan. _Damn_ it.

The guard, eyes-front and plumbline-straight in his alcove, had enough time to catch sight of them and raise his eyebrows before his head bloomed into a fleshy flower. His spitshined boots juddered against the cobbled floor and he landed in a rain of blood, brains and bone. 

A bare second later, Roadhog's scrapgun clattered to the floor and Junkrat cackled breathlessly as he tried to peel his raggedy trousers off between Roadhog's belly and the wall to which Roadhog had pinned him. The deep and reptilian growl that rippled up from his chest was not muffled by the mask but it wasn't amplified either; it was made flat and metallic, as if Roadhog's throat was not living but rough-made bronze.

"We don't have time for this," Roadhog said as he unhooked his belt buckle. 

"We sure don't, mate. No time at all," Junkrat grinned. His shorts fell to the ground with a soft whoosh. Roadhog's pants fell with a clatter of buckle and chain.

"Somebody might’ve heard that bomb. Called the cops." Roadhog hooked his hands around the juncture of Junkrat's arse and thighs and hoisted him onto his belly, licked two fingers, reached under him, and slid them in, one at a time. Junkrat, already _well-oiled_ , bucked and giggled. Roadhog clapped his other hand over his mouth. It covered most of his face. "Shut up."  
  
Junkrat's radioactive eyes sparked and spitted gleefully above Roadhog's dirt-smudged hand. He talked and he laughed, the sounds muffled and unintelligible. Roadhog hawked a clot of spit into his hand and coated his cock with it. Junkrat watched his face avidly, licking his palm in unconscious, animalistic hunger. Roadhog felt an answering jolt, powerful and dizzying, in his guts. His breath hissed hotly out of the mask’s seams. This would be difficult—not impossible but difficult and _painful_ for Junkrat—to do without lube, but Junkrat was so very _ready._ The stream-babble pouring from Junkrat’s muffled mouth hitched as Roadhog slowly slid his cock home. Roadhog's hand fell away from Junkrat's mouth and then there were teeth at his neck, Junkrat's nose burrowing into the small space between his chin and the bulky leather shoulderstrap, Junkrat’s rabbit-quick breath hot and delicious on his skin. He punched shallower, infinitely more pleasing holes in Roadhog's flesh than the one still leaking a thin, wavery line of red down his left arm.

More scars, just more scars.

Roadhog braced, thrust, the prow of his belly forcing Junkrat's cackles out of him in a wheeze. He ground him there, relishing Junkrat's feral bite much more than he should have. The pain was bitter and precious. It shot arrows of red light down his spine and they pooled into a pit of heat at the bottom of his belly. Roadhog grunted and groaned despite his own warnings and the stone took the rhythmic sound from him and gave it back to them in a vibration at Junkrat's back and the harder Roadhog pressed, the more of him he sunk into Junkrat, the deeper Junkrat's teeth and nails sunk into his thick skin, but neither of them stopped.

He did not stop, _could_ not stop. Not when sweat, pouring into the fogged-up mask, stung his eyes and ran salty into his mouth. Not when Junkrat convulsed, jaws clamping in a thrashing gator-bite. Not until the pool of lust in him finally burst into a boil, scouring the empty space of him clean.

Roadhog unbuckled his mask then, just the bottom straps, and raised it up just enough to take thirsty gulps of air that was not steamy and flavored with his own sweat.

"Roadie, yer a gem, mate." Junkrat giggled at his own joke and kissed Roadhog. He tasted his own blood on the tongue that darted across his teeth and searched his mouth for the words that neither of them were quite ready to say yet.

They uncoupled, Junkrat's come stretching in strings between a sloping belly and a flat one, and Roadhog's come dripping down Junkrat's legs in shiny white ropes. Junkrat drew the edge of his hand up the inside of his leg, catching as much come as he could, and slurped it noisily, firebright eyes locked wickedly on Roadhog.

As Junkrat dressed, Roadhog swiped two fingers across the already-drying smear of come on his belly, and, with the awkward, furtive speed of guilt, licked them. If Junkrat saw, acknowledgement didn't come in the constant runnel of words.

Roadhog dressed, refitted his mask, and they moved on.

The last guard station was like the first they'd encountered: empty. The guard from this station must have been one of the ones congregated at the station two below. Where the third man had come from was a large and _hairy_ unknown, and Roadhog didn't like those, not in jobs like this.

"Wouldja look at that, Hoggy! They even left the door chocked for us!" Junkrat dashed into the dimly-lit room across the hallway from the empty guard station.

The door, a bulkhead of riveted steel as thick as Roadhog’s biceps, stood half open, sending up another red puff of alarm in his mind. It was well past closing time, and the treasury should have been shut and locked. Junkrat had designed and built a special bomb for the purpose. He ducked inside the room. It, carpeted from ceiling to floor by womblike purple, had an odd hushed quality that was stifling after the echoing stone hall. The air was close, still, dry, warm.

A dumpy, balding man in a black suit and white gloves rounded the corner between two glass cases and froze, his mouth and eyes pale shocked Os in the larger, paler O of his face.

"G'day, mate," Junkrat said to him cheerily.

Without the click of conscious effort, Roadhog swung his hook at the egg-shaped man. He made a small _hgrk_ sound as the nails punctured him, a tiny _eeennnnhhh_ as the chain hauled him into Roadhog's waiting hands, and finally a wet, anticlimactic pop as Roadhog snapped his neck with a brutal twist. Pain from his shot shoulder, closer but still inconsequential, tweaked him.

Junkrat used the man's doughy body as a stepstool to reach up and kiss the snout of Roadhog's mask. "I love it when you snap men's necks fer me, ol' Hoggy," he said.

"Hurry up," Roadhog grunted, but Junkrat needed no urging. In the time he'd been busy with the curator (had to have been him), Junkrat had stuck tiny circular disks-- concussion mines in miniature-- onto each of the eight twinkling glass cases on pedestals down which rich purple velvet flowed like water.

"Fire in the hole," Junkrat whispered, and thumbed the detonator in his hand.

There was a breathless, ringing silence, and then, all at once, the cases simply disintegrated in a sigh of falling sand.

Roadhog's eyebrows shot up.

Junkrat giggled and armed as much as he could, crowns and scepters and necklaces and strange golden balls studded with jewels in every color, into a nondescript black canvas duffle bag. He tossed it to Roadhog, who caught it as delicately as he could. The contents jangled inside.

"Polarized sound waves, mate," Junkrat said as they descended the stairs, his tone suggesting that the answer to the glass-to-sand riddle was as simple as falling over. "They say sound waves can't be polarized, but if their brains were dynamite, they couldn't blow their own bloody noses!" Junkrat's high, drilling laughter carried in waves through the spiral stone hallway. The metallic waterfall sounds of the gold trappings festooning Junkrat like Christmas tinsel provided jangling accompaniment.

Roadhog didn't know who _they_ were, only had a limited grasp on how sound could shatter glass anyway, and had absolutely _no_ patience for how often Junkrat pulled up short on the stairs, slipping a heavy ring on his finger or adjusting a thick-banded crown on his head.

But it _was_ damnably, dangerously adorable.

"How do I look, mate?" Junkrat struck a pose and flicked his tongue between his teeth.

Roadhog grunted, stepping away from a train of thought before it launched, hoisted the duffle under one arm, hoisted Junkrat under the other, and bounded down the stairs four and five at a time. They cleared the building, cleared the complex, and Roadhog deposited the jingling, giggling Junkrat into the sidecar of his bike all without incident 

A mist had fallen while they were inside. It furred the edges of the yellow streetlamps and muffled the steel-throated roar of the bike. Junkrat stood in the sidecar and flung his arms out, letting the made wind snuff the embers in his hair and rattle his ornaments.

"We did it, Hoggy! We fuckin' _did it!_ Hooley _dool--_ "

Sirens blatted behind them. Junkrat spun, teeth bared in a rictus that was half glee, half snarl. He yanked a bomb off the belt that hooked over his right shoulder, cocked back...

"Junkrat!" Roadhog bellowed, and pointed at the thing in his hand.

It wasn't a bomb. It was a golden orb, girded with purple jewels and topped with a small cross. Junkrat threw his head back and laughed, a high, shattered-glass sound that rose discordantly over the sirens. Junkrat bent to the floor of the sidecar and fished a bomb and a crown out of the duffel bag. How bombs had gotten in there Roadhog didn't know.

"All hail King Jamison Fawkes the First! And Duke Roadhog!"

The police car nearest to them, lashing the old wood-and-stone storefronts past which they sped with strobes of red and blue light, suddenly bounced into the air as if on a spring, a cloud of angry orange and yellow fire erupting under it. It returned to earth with a groundshaking _CRUNCH_. The siren slowed, stuttered, quit, but not before the second car slammed nose-first into it. Torn metal howled. Glass tittered like Junkrat. Roadhog let the music of it infuse him.

A circular weight snugged down around his temples. Junkrat's gunpowder black face popped up in front of him. "Now you've got a crown t'match yer _sparklin'_ personality, mate!"

Junkrat straddled him straddling his bike, and Roadhog was not surprised to feel a small (for him) hardness against his belly. The third police car drew up beside them, a strobe-lit face with mouth and eyes like bullet holes in the window, and Junkrat obliterated mouth and face and half of the car in a roar of white fire, his lips latched onto the mask's snout and his hips grinding against Roadhog's belly. Roadhog twisted the throttle and the bike ate the ground.

The ride to their safehouse, the abandoned, burnt-out husk of an apartment building several miles from the Tower, was both maddeningly long and damnably short, both for the same reason: Junkrat. He crawled all over Roadhog like a bee after pollen, grasping and clinging and demanding and pressing. Roadhog's warning growl tumbled to the asphalt unheeded and became softer, deeper, less angry. Junkrat peeled his mask up from his face and kissed him, burrowing his twitchy living hand into the front of Roadhog's trousers. "Aah, Roadie, can't wait t' getcha back t--"

The bike braked in a squeal of rubber and a creaking grunt of steel, but Junkrat clung too tightly to Roadhog to be thrown. "We're back," he growled, and hauled both Junkrat and the duffel bag into the inky maw of the building. It swallowed them, its glassless windows staring out across London like dead men's eyes.

Roadhog deposited Junkrat and their score (somehow unimportant now) in the far corner of the hollow-mouthed building, where they had made their burrow-nest of home: a few stained mattresses in a pile, a snowdrift of schematics, a greasy oil lamp (not lit), bottles of water and liquor (stolen), and a litter of wires and chips of metal. A misshapen, threadbare Pachimari guarded the bed. "Stay. I'm doing perimeter check."

This ritual of closing-in and winding down had been so long a part of their lives that it was as necessary as eating and as sweet as foreplay. Roadhog rolled the bike into a grass-choked hollow behind the building and then slunk on listening feet, like the world's largest housecat, around the entire building, ears and eyes-- unhindered by the mask he'd unbuckled and slid up over his forehead-- exquisitely tuned to the nightsounds. He knew Junkrat would be in there waiting for him, safe in his burrow, every line of his lithe body alight with the same need that pulsed redly in him...

A small, helpless noise whistled out of Roadhog's mouth, and he spun inside.

Junkrat had lit the lamp and shed his clothes, but he was not naked.

He was a walking golden explosion, the surly yellow light from the lamp chasing itself over the gold and glittering jewels-- a clot of necklaces at his throat and pouring down his chest, bracelets jangling up to both elbows, rings heavy on every finger, the rich purple bulb of crown-- that seemed to glow with their own inner fire: Junkrat's.

_Jamie's._

"Jamie..." Roadhog said, unable to tear his eyes away. He felt his joints turn to water.

Jamie shed him of his tire and harness and hook and trousers and boots in an instant. "King Jamison Fawkes the First, if y' _please_ , Duke." He sniggered and pulled Roadhog toward the sagging, filthy bed. The gleam in Jamie's eyes was predatory and wicked. Roadhog's gut twisted with lust so potent it _hurt._ "Your king commands you to yer _knees."_

For a moment, Roadhog did nothing, mind whirling. Then, _oh,_ he obeyed his boss. He landed with a thud that chewed his knees and pinged the wounds in both shoulders. The crown that until now he'd forgot he was wearing slipped down over one eye.

Like this, Roadhog was only a bit shorter than Jamie, but they both knew what must be done. So Roadhog bent down to Jamie's cock, standing proudly out of its nest of straw-colored hair, and took it into his mouth. Hands, small but twitchily strong, grabbed his mask, clawed at his face, his neck. Jamie keened and punched his hips forward, mashing Roadhog's nose against his hard, flat belly. "Suck it like _y'mean_ it, Roadie," Jamie barked. "Am I not yer _king?_ " With his steel hand, he delivered a bitter, ringing slap to Roadhog's grizzled, scarred cheek. The crown clanked to the floor and rolled away.

It was not the stonehearted desert's son Roadhog; it was not lost Mako that the magnet in Jamie was drawing to the surface. He became another creature entirely in the precious few times Jamie bid him kneel. This small creature, pitiful and tiny and mewling in the dark corners of him, basked in the rolling over, in the kneeling. In the knowing that he belonged to Jamie tonight; he was Jamie's to make or unmake. _Jamie's_.

Roadhog's tattooed cheeks sunk against his teeth and Jamie trembled, clawing his scalp. The sting of yanked hair made him groan. He gripped Jamie's narrow flanks harder.

"Ohhh, god _damn,_ Roadie," Junkrat moaned. "Y'just _love_ gobblin' the royal knob, don't yeh?"

"Mmm," he said, knowing he must answer but also knowing he must not stop. Jamie wrenched his head up by his topknot.

"Tell me how much, mate. Tell me how much y'love it." Jamie's sour breath gusted in his face.

"More than anything, boss," he said to the needle-toothed grin with his blood still sedimented in its corners. To the eyes that burned him as they yearned for him.

"Wouldn't say that jes' yet, Roadie. The night's young."

Roadhog's heart vaulted against his ribs. He didn't know what Jamie had planned. He didn't care. All that mattered was there _was_ a plan, and he would be with Jamie. That was everything in the world.

Jamie hooked a finger into the ring threaded through Roadhog's nostrils and pulled him back down to his cock. He latched on hungrily and resumed his work. Jamie rolled his hips and grasped Roadhog's face, plowing bloody furrows over the whorls of Ta Moko on his cheeks, chin, and nose.

As in most things, Jamie went hard, fast, and full of heedless, joyful abandon. Jamie’s thrusts quickened, then slowed. He groaned, thrusting his hips forward and crushing Roadhog's face against him. Roadhog welcomed the hot jet spurts of come, and swallowed them in short animal gulps. Jamie panted giggles, his grip iron on Roadhog's topknot. It was difficult to breathe, but if his place was with his face stuck to Jamie, that's where he would remain until there was no air left in his lungs.

Finally the pressure on his head lifted, and Roadhog rocked back on his haunches, licking his lips and panting.

There was still a bullet in Roadhog's left shoulder and deep bite marks in the right one. Now there were shallow but stinging wounds on his face, but Roadhog's knowledge of them was far away, clinical. _Jamie_ was the only real thing; Jamie filled every sense.

"Love it when y'look at me like that, mate," he said, and pulled Roadhog upright by two fingers in the heavy gold rings in his nipples. Roadhog rose under his own power, of course, but he could no more disobey Jamie's be-ringed hand on his belly, pushing him back toward the pile of mattresses, than he could launch himself back to Australia and heal the wounded Outback.

The deep purple jewels set in Jamie's crown caught the ruddy lamplight in arrowing flashes, and the gems and gold adorning him jingled thickly as he moved. Roadhog sunk to the mattresses and lay back. Jamie's eyes roved over him like crawling things, over the rising-falling line of his belly, up the curved, veined tower of his cock. Lingered for a moment were precum pearled around the silver ring at its tip. "Hmmm..." he cocked his hip and quirked his mouth. "Somethin's miss--ah!" He snapped his living fingers and unlooped a string of pearls and a gold chain from his neck. The gold chain bit into Roadhog's wrists as Jamie bound them together over his head, but he made no complaint. "That's better," Jamie said, stepping back with his hands on his hips. "Like it oughtta be."

Roadhog agreed.

Jamie bent to the side of the mattress pile and scooped up a sceptre-- one he'd clearly stowed there-- and twirled it deftly in his steel hand. "Ready t'receive yer king's _blessing_ , Hoggy ol' Hog?" His lascivious, snarling grin punched Roadhog's belly and made him squirm.

"Yes, boss," Roadhog said, his normal rumbling baritone weak and thready.

A bottle of lube—where he had gotten that?—materialized in Junkrat’s hand, and he knelt between Roadhog's legs. The bottom half of him and the sceptre disappeared behind the dome of his belly.

"Hmm, which end...?" Jamie mused. Before he'd lost sight of it, Roadhog had seen a clot of jewels of various sizes and a cross on one end of the sceptre. The other had been bulbed and round. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Something cold and smooth and slick pushed into his arse and he let out the breath he was holding in a long, loud, rattling moan. Jamie cackled. "Y'wanted this _bad,_ didn't ya, y'greedy piggy? Yer all slicked up already.”

Then a vise clamped around his balls, squeezing them to the edge of pain. Roadhog's entire body jerked. The vise moved; it was Jamie's hand. And something else: hard and circular and _cold_. He could not see over his belly, and in one of the extremely rare moments in his life, he wished it gone. A dull, sweet ache pounded rhythmically up his spine from his balls. Jamie's laughter was honey and wine.

"I hereby dub thee Sir Piggy," Jamie said, and wiggled the sceptre inside him. Roadhog groaned and arched his back, feeling the orgasm gathering strength at the root of his belly.

With brutal suddenness, Jamie wrenched the sceptre out of him and twisted the ring at the head of his cock. Pain was a gunshot. He cried out.

"Nah, mate, you don't come till I want you to come." Jamie's grin was deliciously demonic.

"Y--yes, boss," Roadhog stuttered.

Jamie leaned forward, sliding up the length of Roadhog's body, and Roadhog felt Jamie's cock, hard again, against his own. Jamie tugged the mask off Roadhog's head and fitted it over his face. His narrow, bony chest expanded like a bellows as he breathed deep. "Aaaaahh," Jamie purred. The sight of him in the mask squeezed Roadhog's heart and balls. "Too bad we're outta hogdrogen," Jamie giggled, the sound flavored metallic by the mask. "I'd _really_ make ya _squeal_ then. Oh well. Next time." He removed another gold chain from his neck, this one long and heavy. With the steel-cabled strength in his metal hand and a pair of needlenose pliers he fished from the clutter around the bed, he snapped one link and threaded it through Roadhog's nipple rings, then bent it back into place. Roadhog watched the wiry muscles bunch and coil in Jamie's chest and arms. Jamie flapped the chain like reins. It pulled Roadhog's piercings. Hurt. "Giddyup, piggy," the mask sniggered, and guided his hot, hard cock into Roadhog's arse.

Roadhog's toes curled as Jamie thrusted, jerky and uneven, as if rhythm was too much of a bother. Jamie hauled back on the chain with one hand, sending bright spears of pain through him, and kept a tight hold on his balls, adding a heavy thump to the chorus of pain. His cock was hard, _hurting_ hard; the bullet in the back of his shoulder ground deeper with every thrust; sweat dripped into where Jamie had claimed him with his teeth and _burned_.

Pain was Roadhog, and Roadhog was pain.

And Jamie, towering over him, claiming him over and over, glorious and grinning behind his mask, was the source of all pain and all release.

Jamie backed out of him and Roadhog nearly bellowed in anguish. He rotated his finger-- _flip--_ and Roadhog struggled to obey. It was difficult with his wrists bound (he felt the slick of blood under the pearls and gold) and his nipples reined, but he managed, arching his back to its limit and presenting himself for Jamie-- his _king._

"What a _pretty sight_ that is," Jamie said.

The gold chain, now looped back under his arms, jerked. Jamie struck his wide arsecheek with such force that he jolted forward, groaning on a wave of pain. Jamie thrust roughly back in, all pretense of gentleness gone. Roadhog's head sagged between his elbows and he no longer understood Jamie's babble. The one remaining towline mooring his mind to reality strained and creaked. Jamie yanked the chain around his nipples, then delivered another flat-palmed hit to his arse. Threads of drool dripped out of Roadhog’s mouth. The points of Junkrat’s hips thudded against his arse. Jamie snagged his topknot with his living hand and hauled back with all his strength, earning a strangled yelp from Roadhog. His back and neck and nipples screamed. Jamie's ceaseless babble rose above the howling storm of pain in him.

"Squeal for me, Hoggy! _Squeal!_ "

And he did, giving voice to his muscles, the bullet in his shoulder, the harrow tracks on his face and back, the red pulp of his wrists, the ache in his collared balls, the dull red pulse in his cock, and the need for release, the need for _Jamie, please Jamie,_ "Please, Jamie, Jamie, _please Jamie please Jamie Jamie Jamie pleeeeease..."_

Jamie's laugh, deep now, was a bomb planted deep in him, and it snapped the ropes holding him together and it unzipped his spine and curled his toes and when the orgasm hit it was a detonation that seared all the blood from his veins and turned them into threads of lightning in the stormcloud that was his body. It pulled a shattered groan from him, the sound of a savage, desperate, wounded thing. His cock shot thick, pearly streams of come onto the bed beneath him.

Pain and orgasm were a receding storm. Reality dripped down around Roadhog like cold rainwater. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He swallowed and his throat was scorched sandpaper.

Then Jamie was kneeling in front of him, the mask hiked up on his head, his eyes soft gold rings in the lamplight. "Roadie, mate." The rings on his fingers were warm. His hands on Roadhog's face were warm. His voice was warm. "I take back what I said before. Yer a bigger gem than any on me crown." And his smile was warm. He unwound the pearl-and-gold cuffs from his wrists, snapped the rein-chain from his nipple rings. Unbent the gold cuff from his balls. Reached under the sloping parabola of Roadhog’s belly and swept up the puddle of his come in both hands. Slurped it. Returned to Roadhog’s side. "Can ya move?"

"Mmm," he said, and found he could roll gingerly onto his back. The only part of him that did not scream protest was between his legs, which instead thudded with echoing aftershocks. His thighs rubbed together in their combined slickness. He reached for a grease-stained rag, but his bullet-wounded shoulder told him it had reached the end of its forbearance. He grimaced and let it fall.

"What's the matter, mate?"

Roadhog grunted, fully aware of what a pitiful sight he must be and unable to do anything about it. "Shoulder. Got hit back at the Tower."

Jamie's face opened in alarm. "You _what,_ mate? Why didn't ya bloody _tell_ me? C'mon, up ye get. Lemme have a look." Jamie knelt behind him and heaved him into a sitting position, with which his paddled arse disagreed loudly. Jamie's light, quick fingers ghosted on his back. "They got ya good, didn't they, Hoggy me Hog? Ah, no worries."

Jamie, naked but for rings and necklaces and a cockeyed crown, trotted out of the cone of light the lamp cast, toward the bike. He returned moments later with a small white box with a red cross on its lid.

Roadhog's mind was drifting pink fuzz, shot through with angry red whenever Jamie tweaked a wound or seared a scratch with alcohol. He worked busily around the lump of flesh that was Roadhog. He allowed himself to be cleaned and bandaged and even though this was not the first time this had happened, he marveled at the juxtaposition of their roles, turning it over in his mind like a giant diamond 

"There, mate; cleaned ya up good." Roadhog smiled drowsily. "That bullet's deep, though. Gotta work it a bit. It'll hurt. Okay, mate?"

Roadhog grunted assent. It would hurt a _lot_ , but it wasn't the first time, or probably the last, that he'd taken or would take bullets.

For Jamie, he'd take all the bullets in the world.

Jamie knelt behind him, rested his living hand on his shoulder. Roadhog covered it with his own. Squeezed. Let go.

Then Jamie dug in.

This time there was no pleasure to compliment the pain, and Roadhog snarled dangerously as the hemostat burrowed relentlessly into his flesh, searching for the bullet. After an eternity of mindsplitting pain, Jamie chirped victory. " _Got_ the little bugger! Sorry 'bout that, mate. Had to be done." 

Roadhog grunted. He'd said those words to Jamie not that long ago, a meat cleaver in one hamfisted hand, dripping with Junkrat's blood.

Pain radiated in a sick mushroom cloud from his shoulder. He barely felt the tug of needle and thread stitching his skin. The mask suddenly dropped over his face.

"Inhale," Jamie said from a million miles away, and the ozone-metal tang of hogdrogen tingled his nostrils. On instinct, he did, and _oh._ His body was drenched with heavy, heady coolness that did not kill the pain but declawed it. Hadn't Jamie said they were out of hogdrogen?

No, it didn't matter. Not when Jamie was in his arms, planting kind kisses on the snout of his mask, not when Jamie placed gentle hands on him and bade him lay back. His shoulder ached, but the ache was cool and distant.

Jamie was close, real. Jamie filled every sense. They lay on the grubby pile of mattresses, Roadhog drifting to sleep on a cloud of hogdrogen, Jamie's hands lullabying him.

"It's good to be the king," Jamie said thoughtfully, "if I've got me trusty knight Mako by me side."


End file.
